Enjoy the Silence
by Kermitfries
Summary: He crashed to the ground, because gravity didn't get the memo; gravity didn't know he was as light as a feather now, and the rules no longer applied to him.


When Ian gets fucked up, for the first time, for real, it hasn't got a thing to do with him being homo. The tense apprehension that Ian had always felt low in his gut, the waiting for somebody to find out, somebody outside of his family, somebody who wouldn't raise a beer and say 'to each his own', somebody who would actually do something, dissipated almost immediately. The first time the bat connected with his face, the apprehension disappeared altogether, making him feel lighter than he ever had in his entire life. He crashed to the ground, because gravity didn't get the memo; gravity didn't know he was as light as a feather now, and the rules no longer applied to him.

The bat came down again, connecting with his ribs, his shins, his face again, and somewhere in the foggy back of his brain, he realized that the person hitting him was probably drunk, because he missed Ian altogether more often than not. Ian's breathing was loud and wet, pushing out past the blood caught in his throat, and he tried to roll into a ball, to minimize the vital organs the bat could hit, but then someone kicked him in the face and he forgot what he was doing.

"You can tell Frank I want my money," somebody was suddenly so close to Ian he could feel the hot breath on his ear and swallow the smell of alcohol down past the blood, "tonight. Or I come back for your kneecaps. Got it?" Ian didn't nod, he didn't do anything because breathing was all he could remember to do, and even that he failed to do right. His breath kept stuttering, like he was on the verge of stopping, every single time he inhaled.

He stayed there for a while. The baseball field. Just stayed there, sprawled out on the open grass, on his back, breathing in and out, wheezing past the pain, eyes shut. He considered staying there forever, because if he didn't move, then surely time would just have to stop. But then somebody tripped over him, and he grunted because a knee dug into his ribs and he thought they might be broken but he'd only broken a rib once, when he was thirteen, and Frank had tried to teach him how to wrestle. It hadn't ended well then either.

"Shit," somebody said, hitting the ground. Ian supposed he could probably feel the guy moving - the sound waves or some shit like that - but he didn't open his eyes. "Shit, shit, Gallagher?" Hands touch his face, tilting it and he feels like throwing up. The slap is so sudden and so hard, his eyes snapped open and Mickey was hovering over him. "Shit, I thought you were dead."

"You're supposed to check for a pulse," Ian said distantly, tilting his head to escape Mickey's hands, but it made him nauseous so he laid still. "I think I have a concussion," he say, still distant, so fucking far away.

"The fuck happened to you?" Mickey asked. He was calm. Eerily calm. Ian had only seen him freak out once, and that was when Frank caught them fucking. Mickey did well under pressure, better than Ian, but for Mickey it was probably a survival mechanism.

"I ran into a fucking door," Ian said so seriously Mickey gave him a look.

"You're in the middle of a fucking field, dumbass," he said after a second. "Who did this?"

"I don't know," Ian admitted.

"Fag bashers?" Mickey asked, because that was always on his mind. The depth of human depravity knew no bounds and was timeless. It was inevitable.

"No," Ian answered. "I think I might puke."

Mickey grimaced and moved back. He grabbed for Ian's shoulders, roughly helped him sit up, but sitting up hurt more than anything. Ian winced, pressing a hand to his ribs but the pressure didn't help. "I don't think it's too bad," he said after a moment, thinking maybe he wasn't going to puke after all.

"Get the fuck up," Mickey said. "Can you walk? Fucker? Can you walk or not?"

Ian had no idea. "Stop yelling," he said, and Mickey glared at him, because Mickey wasn't yelling. Shit. "Help me up, I can walk," he said, even though he still didn't know if his legs would support him. But he couldn't fucking crawl home, so he was going to have to walk.

Mickey wasn't a gentle person. Ian knew that. He liked that. So it freaked him the fuck out when Mickey helped him to his feet, semi-gently, like he expected Ian to crack and shatter under his hands. Ian wrapped an arm around Mickey's shoulders and held onto him tightly because it hurt so much he needed to clutch something. Mickey didn't seem to mind.

"How do you know they weren't fag bashers? Frank could've -"

"No," Ian interrupted. He was tired of talking. He was so out of it, drunk on pain, that Mickey did stop for a second.

"I need to know who's knee caps I need to break," Mickey said after a moment of silence, almost pleading. Because he could do that - that was something he could do well. He could get pissed and break people apart and then move the fuck on, because mission solved, wound healed. But if there was nobody for him to hurt, no revenge to forcibly take, then he was left doing nothing, and it was the most helpless feeling he knew.

"I know," Ian said quietly. "I'll get you a name, I just - I can't think, Mick. It fucking hurts. I think I'm gonna puke."

The walk back to the Gallaghers was slow going and took an hour longer than it should have. Ian did puke on the way back, eventually. Ian dug in his pockets for his house keys when they got up the front stairs and swore when he came up empty. "Shit. I think I forgot them," he admitted and Mickey rolled his eyes, because that meant they'd have to wake somebody up. Fucking beautiful.

Ian leaned back against the house while Mickey moved forward and pounded on the door. It took a good ten minutes for the door to open, and Fiona stood there, in sweats and a tank top that hugged close to her skin, blurry eyed and confused. "Mickey? What are - is that blood? Jesus."

Of course, then she saw Ian. "Jesus," she repeated. "What the fuck happened?" Mickey helped Ian inside and sat him down at the kitchen table. Fiona turned on Mickey with an intensity he'd never seen on her face before. Great. Mama bear mode.

Mickey held up his hands defensively. "It wasn't me," he said quickly, more than just a little annoyed. "I found him like that. Calm your tits."

That didn't help, but it did get Fiona's eyes off of him. She busied herself around the kitchen, wetting a rag, grabbing a bag of peas out of the freezer. As she wiped the blood off of her brother's face, she grilled him for answers, and Ian folded under her scrutiny like a house of fucking cards.

Fiona didn't ask him if it was gay bashers, and Mickey figured it was probably because she didn't know. Mickey hovered at the edge of the kitchen, practically still in the living room, not sure if he should leave or not. He delivered Ian home safe. They could take care of him here, but he still needed to know what to do, who to hurt, how to fix this, and listening to Ian's soft tone detail how he went to the baseball field to get drunk because work had sucked wasn't helping. Especially since he knew Ian was full of half truths; since he knew Ian had been there waiting for him. Except he hadn't shown up. Jesus.

"Stay here," Fiona said and it took Mickey a second to realize she was actually talking to him, not Ian.

"What?"

"Stay here," she repeated. "I need to go next door. For medical supplies. Make sure he doesn't fall asleep. Concussion? Make sure he doesn't fall asleep."

Numbly, Mickey nodded, grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at the table across from Ian. Shit. "These shitheads didn't say anything to you?" He asked, once Fiona was gone. Ian looked like he might be contemplating sleep. His face didn't look half as bad with the blood gone, but it was started to bead up again, along the cuts on his face. The cuts weren't too bad - which was the good thing about bats - the face just bled a lot. Mickey knew that. He tried not to panic. The bruises were the worst of it. His entire right cheek was inflamed in purples and reds and starting to swell. There was blood in his eye and Mickey reached to wipe it away but Ian's temple was still bleeding, so it didn't help.

"No," Ian said. Lied. He was a goddamn liar. If he told Mickey that they'd mentioned Frank, Mickey might actually kill Frank this time, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

When Fiona came back, Veronica was with her. She emptied her arms onto the table, dumping medical shit all over the bloody rags. "I should go," Mickey said, getting up to give them room because they made him feel uncomfortable.

"Mick?" Ian asked, before Mickey had even reached the threshold to the living room. Veronica had taken his seat and was tilting Ian's head back so she could bandage the cut on Ian's neck. Mickey stopped and stared and felt like puking because Ian looked so young, so vulnerable, compliant in her hands. "Why were you out there?" He asked.

"What do you mean?" Mickey asked.

"The field. So late - why were you there? What were you doing?" Ian clarified, and Veronica tugged on Ian's shirt, the universal sign for 'take this shit off' and Ian did, without hesitation. Mickey watched the grimace wash over his face as he lifted his arms and tugged his shirt off over his head. Mickey fidgeted.

"I got in a fight with the old man," he answered, honest, staring open eyed at the bruises blackening Ian's ribs. They were so dark on his pale skin, like somebody had smudged paint across him and all they had to do was wash it off. Mickey wanted to wash it off. His shoulder blades were speckled with that same damn paint, from when he'd hit the ground. "Figured I'd find somewhere to sleep. What were you still doing there?" He asked and the last sentence had a bite to it, because it was the only question he wanted answered right now, the only question Ian would be able to answer.

Ian shook his head, as if to say 'your guess is as good as mine' instead of what it should've said, which was 'you stood me up, you dick.' There were as many questions on Ian's face as there were bruises.

Mickey didn't leave, though he never stopped looking like he wanted to. Veronica fixed Ian up, and deduced that he had a concussion. She told him to sleep a lot, and watch his ribs, and no more fighting or fucking until they heal up because those are some fragile motherfuckers, and you shouldn't fuck with their healing process. Ian didn't need help up the stairs, but Mickey helped him anyway.

He didn't tuck Ian in or anything gay like that, but he thought maybe he wanted to. Just to make sure Ian was still there, in one piece, breathing; just to make sure he wasn't going to like die in his sleep or anything. The fear was crushing, and he couldn't explain it, or get rid of it, or breathe around it.

When he went back down stairs, Fiona pushed a pillow against his chest, and Mickey stared down at it like he wasn't quite sure what the fuck it was. "What?"

"You're staying the night," she said with such conviction that he almost didn't argue.

"Why?" He asked, still staring down at the pillow. His hands looked especially dirty against the white.

"You said you were on your way to find somewhere else to sleep, didn't you? For the night? It's three in the morning, Mickey. You can have the couch." She jerked her head back toward the couch, before walking around Mickey toward the stairs.

"Why?" He repeated, turning to pin the question on Fiona.

"You brought him home," she said simply. "You didn't have to." He watched her go, thinking that she didn't get it; he couldn't have not brought Ian home. It wasn't a feasible option.


End file.
